Eyes of my people, a poem by Rethabile Masilo

Sometimes, even after the sun
has gone and street music has tired
the town and stirred all the people,
and there are dancers still
from neighbouring villages
laughing and draining their beers,
I do not leave my room,
a world beyond walls of words,
the reason I hear darkness only
when I close my eyes to pray.
As a Sotho child, when it is time
I must study shadows
that come down the hillside
like flowing blood, before
making the decision to go back
to my people, to the eyes of them
who have been studying the world
to bring it a revolution of peace,
change it, according to the needs
of all of us, dream everything up
and then build it for generations
to come, kneading its soft clay
of love with hands of nature.

The family at Peka, circa 1966.
Khotsofalang is in the red sweater
with black arms. I'm the
good-looking dude in the middle.